


Sunlight

by StardewTales



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Ballet, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Masquerade, Music boxes, Romantic Fluff, Self-Indulgent, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stargazing, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, a whole lotta yearning, come get your loving asra juice, foreign oc, like the slowest burn my dudes, many hints to actual ballets and songs can you guess which??, minor canon divergence to fit the oc's background, painted daisy festival, pre-plague
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-02-08 13:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18624502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StardewTales/pseuds/StardewTales
Summary: It's a chance encounter when Asra meets Clara. It really is, and so are the next few times he runs into her. Until he decides he's had enough of leaving it up to fate.Clara came to Vesuvia as a favour to her aunt and in the hopes of escaping her life as it is. All she wanted was to sell fabrics and garments. It's a temporary arrangement, and she's not looking to grow roots in this place.When the last grain of sand in the hourglass drops, how much of that will have changed? Too much... or not enough?





	1. So Familiar A Gleam

**Author's Note:**

> look at me altering my brand going from song titles to song lyrics to name my chapters. truly showing the judges versatility. hope you enjoy this one lads x

Moments before Asra sees her for the first time, the rain stops abruptly, and the clouds part to let faint rays of sunshine illuminate the streets of Vesuvia. He’s been hiding out from the rain with the baker, and he bids him goodbye before stepping out to roam the empty marketplace. It’s eerie, how quiet it is when no one else is around. The loudest sound is that of droplets of rain dripping from the stall awnings, the sunlight refracting in them and casting the tiniest of rainbows. Faust peeks her head out of his satchel, but gives him no sign she wants to get out of it.

It’s hotter and still humid by the time he hears it. A faint melody, notes clear and sharp, is escaping from an open window, somewhere. He can’t help but think it’s uncanny how the tune somehow sounds precisely like sunlight after the rain. Intrigued, he follows the sound, having to stop sometimes because his footsteps are louder than the song.

His eyebrows shoot up when he realizes he knows the place from where the music is drifting. It’s a hole in the wall of a shop, a narrow wooden sign bearing a single word above the door:  _ Atelier _ . He remembers it from so many years ago, when his mother used to send him there with a small pouch of gold coin and a precise order of fabrics scribbled onto a piece of parchment. He hasn’t set foot in there since his parents went missing, doesn’t think he’s even noticed it as far back as he can remember. The memory of his mother stirs something odd in the pit of his stomach, a gut feeling that urges him to enter the store.

Its door is open already, but the shop appears to be empty. The melody, clear as water now, fills the narrow room around him, bouncing off the walls lined with rolls of fabric. A long counter lines the wall to his right, strewn with flyaway papers and open books, as well as a generous amount of miscellaneous thread spools. At the back of the room, a spiral stairway leads to another floor, right next to a door frame lined with a bead curtain. However, it’s the scent that is most striking. Outside, he wouldn’t have been able to remember the delicate blend of lemon, rose and lavender that perfumes the shop. Inside, it’s hard to fathom he ever forgot it.

As he contemplates his surroundings, filled with nostalgia by this place that has barely changed in all those years, he doesn’t notice that the music dies down. He only does when he picks out a faint humming, coming from behind the beaded curtain. So the shop is not entirely empty, he realizes. He wonders how he should make his presence known, hesitates as he tries to remember what the woman who owned the shop looked like back then. He ends up not having the time to pick.

The beads rustle gently as she pushes them aside, still humming. She is startled into a gasp when she sees him standing there.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” she says, heading for the counter. “I hope you haven’t been waiting for too long.” There is a foreign lilt to the way she pronounces some of the vowels, an accent he can’t quite make out.

Asra just stares at her, shocked by her youth. She doesn’t look too unlike what he remembers, but there is no way it was her who helmed the shop all those years ago; the girl now facing him looks about his age. And as he stares, he is completely mesmerized, though he couldn’t say why exactly.

She clears her throat. “Is there anything I can help you with, sir? Perhaps you’ve come to fetch some fabric?”

Asra blinks out of his trance. “No, uhm, well,” he starts, his cheeks heating up in embarrassment, “I’m not really looking to buy anything, to be honest. I’m just wondering, there was a woman who kept this shop many years ago…” he trails off, unsure of what it is exactly he means to ask.

She smiles fondly, and by all the stars in the sky, he’s never seen a smile so tender. “That would be my aunt, Madeleine,” she answers. “This shop’s always been hers. I’m just temporarily keeping it running while she’s back home. If you meant to see her, I’m afraid you’re a few weeks too late.”

His brow furrows. “Home?” he asks. He doesn’t remember the woman being foreign, but then again he doesn’t remember much very distinctly.

Her smile quirks with amusement. “It’s not very well known in these parts, I doubt you’ve heard of it. She’s always been a free spirit, my aunt, it’s a wonder she ended up settling anywhere at all,” she tells him.

“I see,” he nods, processing the information. It’s not like he expected anything coming in. She doesn’t stare as he collects his thoughts. “There was music, when I came in…?” he blurts, still trying to make sense of what he’s doing there.

She nods, and heads behind the counter for an alcove in the wall. In it, a shelf is littered with small boxes of all shapes and colours. She plucks one out, painted in a very pale greenish blue and glossy with an opalescent shimmer.

“It came from this,” she explains, setting the box on the counter, which he approaches. “It’s a music box. I, well, I like to collect them,” she says, and blushes at the admission. “I brought them with me here.”

Fascinated, he reaches for the box, grabbing it after she nods her consent, biting her lip. Jutting out of its side, a crooked silver handle beckons to be winded. He gives it a single turn, gently so as not to risk breaking it, and the box sings a string of the notes he heard earlier.

“I’ve seen music boxes before, but nothing quite like this,” he comments, setting it back down. “Where did you find all of these?” he asks, pointing to the rest of them.

“Here and there,” she answers vaguely, putting the box back on the shelf. “They’re quite popular in Nevivon, I’ve found.”

“Is that where you’re from?” he asks, jumping onto the piece of information.

She chuckles softly, shaking her head. “No, I just stopped there on my way here.”

His eyes go wide at that. If Nevivon is only a stop between her homeland and Vesuvia, she truly is from a place so far away he doesn’t know of it.

“So if you’re not here to buy, what brings you here then?” she asks him, straightening into the more formal posture of a dutiful shopkeeper.

“Oh, uhm,” he starts, scratching his neck, “I just sort of… stumbled here, I guess. I used to come here for my,” and his voice breaks slightly before he continues, “my mother, a long time ago. I’d forgotten this place existed, frankly.”

Her gaze is hard to read as she studies him, before she’s smiling again. “Well, then, welcome back! If you ever need any fabric, you know where to find it,” she says playfully. “Oh! And the masks for the masquerade are almost ready, too! I’ll be bringing those to the marketplace, if you need one.”

He nods at the information. Truth be told, he’s only ever worn the same mask he stole as a child, having now finally grown into it. However, with the eager look she’s giving him, he’s considering breaking tradition for the very first time.

“Good to know,” he says. “Well, I might as well stop wasting your time now. I’ll be on my way out,” he tells her with a small wave, very aware that he has no purpose in this shop.

“It’s no bother,” she assures him as he heads for the door.

As he’s about to step back out, he lingers in the doorway. “I’m sorry,” he turns around, “I don’t think I caught your name. I’m Asra,” he introduces himself with a sheepish grin.

“Clara,” she answers, amused. “It’s nice to meet you, Asra.”

He takes a few extra seconds to commit her to memory; the freckled bridge of her nose, the wide, kind eyes, and the bouncy pale strands of hair.

“Pleasure was all mine,” he winks, and with that darts off into the street.

Faust peeks her head out of the bag once more.

_ New friend? _ She asks him.

“We’ll see about that,” he chuckles.


	2. Sunshine In Their Hearts

Asra curses when, on his way to town, a branch rips a hole into his scarf. Old and worn, it’s taken more than enough damage already, but he’ll never discard it for a new one. It was his father’s scarf, the one thing he’d left behind in his dungeon cell before disappearing. It was a servant from the palace that had retrieved it and tracked him down to hand it to him, an act of kindness he’d desperately needed at a time in his life when he’d never been more lost.

Dread settles in the pit of his stomach as he studies the rip, holding it up to his face. It’s a big one, loose thread hanging from the gash. He’s not sure he’s got the sewing skills for a seamless repair job; he sighs at the prospect of yet another maroon scar joining the others on the garment.

Hoping to cheer himself up, he makes his way to the tea vendor. As he waits for his cup to be poured, he notices a melody on the breeze, just like three days ago. The song isn’t the same, but the metallic tone is. Searching the crowd, his eyes land on her, two booths down. It’s her, no doubt about it, leaned back on her chair, eyes cast to something in her lap that he can’t quite make out. Clara.

He pays for his tea, blows on the small cup as he heads her way. This time, the music reminds him of petals falling to the ground from blooming trees. She raises her head when she hears his footsteps approaching.

“Oh, it’s you!” she recognizes him, surprise fading into an enigmatic smile. “Asra, right?”

He beams, delighted she remembers him. “Indeed,” he grins. “I heard the music, is it from one of your music boxes again?”

She frowns, studying him attentively. “You heard the music? Is something on your mind?”

He blinks, taken aback by the question. “What do you mean?”

She sets down what she is working on, which he’s now close enough to see is a mask on which she’s been embroidering silver thread. She reaches for the small glossy circular box, the color of ripe cherries, from which the notes pour out. She puts it down on the table between them, a smaller version of the counter at her shop atop which he can see the same type of clutter.

“This one’s a bit special,” Clara explains, and as she starts to speak, he feels it, the distinct imprint of magic on the box. “It’s enchanted so only the weary heart can hear its melody. The song is quite well-known where I’m from, and usually succeeds in cheering up most people.”

“Oh,” he says. “Can I?” he asks, motioning to grab the box.

She holds it up and hands it to him. Their fingers touch when he grabs it, and she pulls her hand away reflexively, looking away, suddenly bashful. He’d smile at the sight if he wasn’t so puzzled by the music box. He’s never heard of them being enchanted, and curiosity bursts into him like a flame from a match just struck.

“What’s the song about?” he asks her, rotating the box in his hands so he can look at it from every angle. There is no handle on this one, or at least none that he can see.

She doesn’t answer him. When he glances at her to see why, he sees her gaze fixated on his satchel. As if on cue, Faust peeks her head out further, her tongue flitting in the air as she starts to slither up the strap only to curl around his arm.

“Don’t mind Faust, she’s very friendly,” he chuckles, petting the snake’s head. Faust nods, eyes closing in delight.

“How interesting,” Clara says, still looking at Faust intently. “I’ve never seen a domesticated snake before.”

“Well, she’s not exactly domesticated,” Asra corrects her. “She’s…,” and he hesitates about telling her, “She’s my familiar.”

Her eyes grow wide. “Are you a magician, then?”

He winces, still unsure how the rest of her reaction will unfold. “I guess you could say so, yes.”

“Uh,” she says. “I wouldn’t have guessed. You don’t look like one.”

Well, whatever he’d been expecting, that wasn’t it. “And what would you know about what magicians look like?” he responds, teasing.

“I’ve dealt with a few, actually,” she replies, a bit defensive. “From personal experience, your kind is usually more… volatile. Shrouded in mystery, and whatnot.”

“I’ll make sure to act more mysterious when we meet again, then,” he replies, thoroughly amused. “Consider it noted.”

She laughs, and it is so filled with light he can’t help but huff, lips quirked up. Even Faust shimmies, slithering up around the back of his neck and down to his other arm.

“So, what’s the song about?” he asks again, even though he can’t hear it anymore.

“Oh, right! Sorry,” she smiles apologetically. “It’s about cherry picking season… and new lovers,” her cheeks dust with pink.

_ She really is bashful _ , he thinks to himself, charmed.

_ Lovely! _ Faust exclaims to him, eager to let him know her thoughts. His own cheeks heat up when he realizes he can only agree.

“So,” Clara clears her throat, arching her brow, “Are you just stopping by on a whim again or are you actually in need of a seamstress this time?”

Faust immediately tangles herself in his scarf, as if to pull it off him, reminding him of its rip.

“Well, actually,” he starts, unwrapping the scarf from himself and setting it down on the table, “Do you offer any mending services? I ripped it this morning.”

She nods, surprised he has an answer for her, and spreads the scarf to have a better look at it. “By the looks of it, you didn’t just rip it this morning. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather get a new one? It looks like it’s seen some better years.”

“That’s not an option,” he answers, leaving no space for doubt.

She nods, not asking further questions. “It’s a slow day,” she starts, looking around. “I can have it done for you within the hour.”

“Oh! I don’t need it back quite so soon, honestly. How about I swing back here at the end of the day to get it back?”

“Sure,” she agrees, still examining the tear in the fabric. “As you wish.”

He grins. “Perfect. I’ll be back, then. See you later, Clara,” he says, knowing he’s very late now with opening up his own booth a few rows further.

She offers him a simple wave goodbye before he turns around.

 

* * *

 

It’s mid-afternoon and the sky is cloudless when she comes to find him at his booth. Her arrival startles him out of a doze; he didn’t have a single client in the last half-hour, and Faust has slithered off to a shady spot somewhere.

“I finished your scarf,” she tells him, and her voice is soft with the boredom of the empty marketplace. Her accent is faint enough that it is still a surprise every time she first speaks, like he can never remember precisely what it sounds like until he hears it again.

“Oh, that was fast! Thank you,” he says, and grabs the garment to examine it. Try as he might, he can’t find the hole, but he also can’t find where she did the repair; it’s seamless. “How did you do that?” he asks, bewildered.

“I’m just good at what I do,” she chuckles, pleased with his reaction. “I hope the result is okay with you?”

“Of course! Are you kidding? It’s perfect,” he exclaims, still in awe. “How much do I owe you?”

She notices the deck of cards on his reading table. “How about you repay me with my fortunes?”

He frowns. It’s hardly a fair trade. “That wouldn’t cover it,” he tells her.

“It’s what I want,” she brushes him off, sitting down to face him at the table. “How does this work?”

He still doesn’t like the deal, but doesn’t press it. It’s not like he’s swimming in gold, and life in Vesuvia has been getting more expensive lately, as it always does around the masquerade.

“You’ve never had your cards read before?” he asks her, starting to shuffle.

She shakes her head no, following the movement of his hands with her eyes. They gleam with something childlike.

“You have to ask a question, and it can’t be answered by yes or no,” he explains. “Leave it to me to figure out the best way to answer it.”

She nods, and seems to ponder which question she’ll ask. As she does, he keeps shuffling, observing her. Her hair, the color of softened linen, is tied up in a massive ponytail, flyaway strands falling around her face. From up close, he can see her freckles better, a sea of them spanning the top of her cheeks and nose. Her eyes are the color of the natural pools near Nopal, where craters of cracked white earth not far from the town nurse hot springs; limpid. Large hoops of resin tinted in a kaleidoscope of pastel colors hang from her ears, playing off her complexion perfectly.

Her blouse, a crisp white, billows around her chest and off her shoulders, revealing a nascent sunburn there. He wonders if she’s noticed it yet. Her skirts are bunched up around her, a pale green covered with a light grey apron tied around her waist. She’s a vision of paleness all over, almost reflecting the blinding sunlight. If he had to put a word to it, Faust had found the right one earlier: lovely.

“Okay, I think I know what I want to ask,” she breaks the silence, and he returns his focus to the deck of cards in his hands. He nods for her to continue. “What… What can I expect of my time here? In Vesuvia, I mean.”

“That’s a great question,” he nods. Too often people misunderstand what kind of questions the cards are able to answer.

He shuffles a bit more before stopping to split the deck into four piles. He makes her pick two, flips them and shuffles the entire thing again. Her curiosity is burning as she doesn’t miss a single movement of his hands. He splits the deck into three piles this time.

“Pick one,” he tells her.

“This one,” she says, gesturing towards the leftmost one.

He takes the other two piles and puts them away, then spreads the remaining one into a flat line between them, closer to him than her.

“Pick six, and hand them to me one at a time,” he instructs. “Don’t overthink it; first instinct is always the right one with the cards.”

She does as he says. He notices most of the cards she picks are tucked away under others, almost hidden from sight. When she’s done, he has laid the cards into the shape of a sun between them.

“Alright, ready?” he asks, looking up at her.

She is sitting with her hands on her knees, leaning towards the table. She nods, visibly excited. He flips all the cards at once, frowning and raising his brow at some of them. Sometimes, he’ll analyze them one at a time, but the spread he’s chosen makes the interpretation for every card bounce off of the others. He starts telling her what he sees before he even fully understands it.

“The first card you drew was the Lovers,” he starts, and she sucks in her breath as she takes in the intertwined forms on the card. “In this position here, it represents something you’ve already learned that you need to remember. You’ve had to make a choice before coming here, a big one that asked of you to examine what you value most. It will help you moving forward; remember it.”

He pauses to see her reaction. She’s hard to read again, but she nods. Encouraged, he keeps going.

“The Magician here tells you that there’s something you want to accomplish while you’re here, or at least there will be,” he continues. “He also tells you that whatever that is, you’ve got what it takes to accomplish it.”

She looks up from the card to him, eyebrows shooting up, but doesn’t interrupt him.

“Now this card here is reversed, which gives it a different meaning. It’s the two of wands; it represents an obstacle you’ll face. Whatever it is you want to accomplish, even though the Magician card indicates you can do it, this card here tells you at some point you’ll feel stunted, and it will mine your determination,” he tells her, and she hasn’t gone back to looking at the cards.

She’s looking him right in the eyes now, everything about her telling him she’s taking every word very seriously. It’s a shock, completely at odds with the usual amusement or suspicion his clients usually react with. 

“When this obstacle comes,” he keeps going, “you have to avoid insecurity and apathy. That’s according to the page of cups here, reversed,” he points to the card, and her eyes flit down quickly before returning to him. “When that obstacle comes, rely on your strengths. Specifically, the six of pentacles points to empathy and kindness, generosity too.”

He’s not surprised this is the card that showed up for her strength. He doesn’t really know her, but he can easily tell how she radiates kindness from the few interactions they’ve had.

“This last card here in the center,” he says, “is your parting advice - the nine of wands. It’s a bearer of hope, one that encourages you to persist and have courage,” he finishes.

She’s silent as she blinks, before lowering her gaze to the cards.

“Do you have any questions?” he asks her, proud of how well the cards linked up.

She opens her mouth, closes it and opens it again. “You can tell all that from just… these cards?” she asks, incredulous.

He laughs. “The cards are like… a language,” he tries to explain. “If you study them enough, it’s very intuitive to understand. Committing it all to memory is the hardest part.”

She nods, pensive. “I guess it makes sense. Anyhow, thank you for this. It was very… enlightening.”

“The cards usually tell us what we already know,” he tells her. “They’re useful because they confront us with what we know but don’t necessarily understand.”

She’s grown quieter since he started the reading. Even when she speaks, there is a look to her suggesting her mind is somewhere else. “I should get back to my things. Thank you, again,” she says, rising to her feet.

Something in him deflates as she leaves so soon. She’s a few steps away when he calls after her, rising too. “Will I see you again?” he asks.

“Vesuvia isn’t so large a city that we shouldn’t cross paths again,” she replies with a hint of mischief. “But why don’t you ask the cards?”

And with that, she turns and walks away. With every step she takes, she steals a bit more of his breath away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1000 points to whoever knows the song Clara's music box plays at the beginning of the chapter tbh


	3. Above All Shadows

It’s been a week since Asra last heard the chime of a music box when he hears it again. It’s in a place so unexpected, far from the market or the Atelier, and the sound is so faint, he first thinks he’s hallucinated it. He looks around, trying to locate where it’s coming from, but the music is cut short. Until it picks back up moments later, when a door opens to let out a few chattering people. 

It’s the door to a theatre, as indicated by the marquee above. It also indicates no performances are scheduled for today. He hesitates about going in. After all, he thinks, surely more than one person in Vesuvia owns a music box.

_ Music _ , Faust nudges him as if to convince him, coiled around his arm.

_ Yes, yes, okay _ , he thinks for her. “Behave,” he whispers out loud, “I doubt snakes are allowed in theatres.”

As soon as he steps inside, he hears the melody again. It’s dream-like, unfamiliar and broken up by silences that last longer than he expects them to. By now, he’s fully intrigued. He spots the open door leading to the audience seats easily; it is where the music is escaping from.

Cautiously, he heads in there, peeking into the room before walking in. There is not a single person sat in there, and no stage lights are lit, but there is someone dancing on the stage. Well, not just anyone. It’s her. His instinct was right.

The smugness of being right lifts as soon as he starts paying attention, however. He makes himself small, hiding in a shadow so as to not interrupt her. He recognizes her, has no doubt he’s found Carla once again, but seeing her dancing up there, she looks like an entirely different person.

For one, her clothes are odd. She is wearing baggy culottes, made with so much extra fabric they sway with her every movement, like they are dancing with her. He can’t quite make out what she is wearing on her feet, doesn’t think he’s seen anything quite like it before, the shoe flat at its front giving the impression that her toes have been cut off. Above the waist, she is wearing nothing but a corset, leaving her shoulders and arms bare. He wonders if perhaps he should leave, wonders if she’s meant to be seen in such an outfit.

Despite his concerns, he finds himself unable to look away. She is dancing like he’s never seen anyone dance before, her movements slow and precise, matching the music. He is mesmerized as he watches her feet move, flitting from the ground to all around her ankles and up to her knees. He notices she is standing on her toes, but is unsure how she manages to do it.

He watches her spin gracefully, observes the curve in the way she holds her arms, how her legs bend and lift with a practiced ease. In fact, he watches so intently that he only notices Faust has left him when he spots her slithering away towards the stage.

_ Come back here _ , he urges her.

_ Lovely! _ She shoots back, and he loses sight of her.

He stifles a curse, but doesn’t dare move, hoping Faust won’t startle her. The music starts to pick up in pace, and on stage, she is alternating step and spin in a larger circle, a repetitive movement echoed in her arms. The speed seems dizzying, but she never loses balance, even when the last note plays and she halts, suddenly transitioning from a spin to a standstill on the toes of a single foot, other leg high behind her and her upper body leaning towards the ground. She holds the pose, arm outstretched in front of her, and he can hear her breathe heavily as she closes her eyes. Out of nowhere, Faust slithers onto the stage right up to her and attempts to nudge her hand.

Clara gasps in surprise as she opens her eyes, quickly falling to her feet without losing balance.

“You’re… you’re his snake, aren’t you? Asra's familiar?” she asks Faust, before looking around the empty seats before the stage.

He rises with a sigh.

“Asra?” she asks him, walking to the edge of the stage, squinting. Faust slithers back into the shadows.

“I’m sorry to intrude like this,” he hastily apologizes, now wondering whatever he was thinking, sneaking into the theatre and watching her from the shadows. “I heard the music from the street, and uh, I thought it might be you again, and next thing I knew I was in here and you were dancing, and you were so focused I didn’t want to startle you,” he tries to explain, but it sounds wrong even to his ears as he walks towards the stage.

Standing on the edge of the stage, she is so tall above him he has to crane his neck to look at her. She seems out of breath, her chest rising and falling noticeably. Regardless, she wordlessly bends down to offer him a hand to help him onto the stage. As she does, it’s hard for him not to notice the swell of her breasts spilling out from the tight corset and the way the light reflects on her skin, glistening with the ghost of sweat. He looks away as soon as he is up there with her, clearing his throat, so distracted he barely registers how easily she just helped pulling him up. Her gaze is heavy on him.

“So, uhm, you dance?” he asks to break the silence, and immediately wishes he hadn’t, the answer very obvious.

Her laughter is light and breathy as she crosses her arms. “You know, if you wanted to see me again, you could’ve just stopped by the shop,” she teases him, finally speaking. “No need to hide in the shadows. How long have you been here?”

“Not long,” he answers truthfully but blushing all the same. He’s not used to the way she makes him feel, like he’s lost all his bearings. “Have  _ you _ been here long?”

“Quite,” she nods. “I’m done for the day, actually. Do you mind if I stretch while we talk? I’ll be sore all week if I don’t,” she tells him, and her tone is apologetic despite him being the one to disrupt her plans.

“Sure, don’t mind me,” he says, hoping he’s doing a good enough job of hiding just how at a loss he is. “I have to find Faust anyways.”

He goes towards the wings to look for her as Clara fetches a canvas bag from a corner of the stage. From the corner of his eye, he sees her sit down and start to undo the ribbons around her ankles.

Try as he might, he just can’t seem to find his familiar. He gives up, knowing she’ll resurface soon enough. He goes back to Clara, sitting down by her. She gives him an inquisitive look as she’s bent over one of her legs.

He shakes his head no. “She tends to hide when she knows she’s done something she shouldn’t have,” he says.

“She’s adorable,” she smiles, and he can’t help but smile himself in turn.

“This dance you were doing… what is it, exactly? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s called ballet,” she says, switching to bend over her other leg, clutching her toes with her hand. “I don’t think it’s very popular around here, but where I’m from, it’s very… appreciated.”

“Where you come from sounds very different from here,” he replies, thoughtful. “How long have you been dancing?”

A shadow flashes over her eyes. “Years,” she replies, so deliberately vague. “I… I never realized how much I loved it until I left and stopped.”

“So you’re doing it here now, then,” he completes the train of thought.

She nods, shifting to another position in her stretching. She is flexible, much more so than he would’ve guessed at first glance. “The theatre troupe is letting me use the stage when they don’t in exchange for a cheap price on costumes,” she explains. “Dancing on pointes is hard on uneven surfaces, and this is the best space I’ve been able to find.”

His brow furrows at the mention of ‘pointes’. He looks at those odd shoes beside her, and it clicks. “Those are the pointes, right?” he asks, reaching to grab one.

“Uh uh,” she nods, shifting into yet another position.

He holds up the shoe at eye level, curious. It is covered in a very pale pink silk, but is surprisingly rigid. He taps on the flat end and is surprised at the hollow sound it makes. “Those can’t be comfortable,” he comments, setting the shoe back down.

She chuckles. “That’s the least you could say. You get used to it, though,” she shrugs.

Only then does he notice how battered and bruised her feet are, one wrapped in bandages across the sole. He frowns. “Are you okay?”

Amusement quirks her lips. “I don’t remember my feet ever not looking like this,” she huffs. “I’m perfectly fine.”

She stretches out her back and arms before rising to her feet. Despite assuring him she’s fine, there is a slight limp in her first step. “I’m going to head back home,” she announces, fishing out a blouse and sandals from her bag.

He gets up too, silently calling Faust back. “Can I,” he pauses as she looks back at him, “Can I walk you there?” he asks.

She seems surprised by the offer. “If you want to,” she answers, uncertain.

He smiles, happy she accepted. At the same time, Faust emerges from the shadows of the wings.

“There you are, you little scoundrel,” he says fondly, crouching for her to slither up his arm. She looks almost contrite. Almost.

She nudges her head towards Clara, who is done putting on her blouse.  _ Lovely! _

“She has a name, you know,” Asra tuts.

“What?” Clara asks, puzzled.

“Oh, sorry, I was talking to Faust.”

“Right. I forget you have ways of… communicating with her,” Clara says, tentative with her choice of words. She seems to realize something. “Wait, what does she call me?”

Asra freezes. “... Lovely,” he answers, looking away, embarrassed.

Clara laughs earnestly. “Well, aren’t you the lovely one,” she says, reaching to pet Faust’s head, who leans into her fingers, eyes closed with bliss.

“She likes that,” Asra chuckles.

* * *

They walked in silence most of the way. He offered to hold her bag for her, but she just laughed at the proposition. The whole way through, he stole glances at her, becoming aware of something drawing him to her. She only caught him one time, and he smiled at her but she looked away instantly, cheeks reddening. When her shop finally comes into view, he clears his throat before speaking.

“So how have you been liking it here, in Vesuvia?” he asks, glancing at her.

She ponders her answer. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it. The sun shines so bright here, and there is so much dust in the air,” she answers, threading lightly.

“Have you been out to the forest yet?” He asks her. “Maybe you’d like it better than the city.”

“I, uh, I’m afraid of getting lost if I go in there,” she admits, not meeting his eyes.

He can’t help an amused smile. “Maybe you and I can go someday,” he suggests, “Together.”

She arches an eyebrow at the weight he puts in the last word. She doesn’t answer anything. Asra finds himself wishing she’d flirt with him, a surprising but ultimately pleasant thought.

“How long are you going to be staying in Vesuvia, anyways?” he asks.

She sighs. “Good question. I’m staying until my aunt gets back, but she hasn’t shared with me when that will be yet. It could be one more week as well as one more season, for all I know. Though I doubt it’ll be that long; she didn’t sound like she intended to settle down for long once she’d get there.”

They’ve reached her doorstep.

“Oh,” Asra replies. “Do you think you’ll be here long enough to attend the Masquerade?”

She hesitates. “It’s hard to know. Even if I am, I’m not sure I’ll be going.”

He’s shocked to hear so. Isn’t she making masks to sell for it? “You really should,” he urges her. “It’s worth seeing at least once.”  _ We could go together _ , he wants to say, but doesn’t.

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” she smiles playfully. “Thank you for walking with me,” she adds, and he can see in her eyes she really is grateful.

Has she been lonely? Does she know anyone in the city, really, anyone other than him?

“It’s the least I could do, after creeping up on you like that,” he laughs nervously. “Sorry again about that.”

She bites her lip to stifle a smirk. He looks at her mouth for a second too long. “Don’t worry about it,” she waves it off. “Although next time, I wouldn’t mind you making your presence known,” she teases him.

“I’ll try to remember that,” he laughs. “So are you saying there will be a next time, then?” he asks, returning the teasing her way.

“Like I said,” she answers, stepping closer to him as she opens the door, “Vesuvia’s a small enough city. And,” she bites her cheek, “You know where to find me.”

Something about the way she says it makes his stomach flip. Is it an invitation?

“Until next time, then,” he replies, “Clara.” He says her name deliberately slow, still testing out how it sounds when he says it.

“Until next time,” she echoes. She gives him one last smile before stepping inside.

He watches the door shut behind her, lingering before leaving. As he walks home, he can still hear the melody she danced to playing in his head. He hopes he’ll see her dancing again, soon. He hopes next time is soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're liking this so far check out my arcana tumblr I said I'd never make @moon-hermit where I might just have already posted a drabble about these two fools.... plus you'll get notified when I update!


	4. A Century Of Lonely Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a tiny 3 chapter update! Find me on tumblr @moon-hermit

It’s the night of the masquerade, and Asra hasn’t run into her in quite some time now, long enough that he’s not sure she’s even still in Vesuvia. Since he found her in the theatre, he’s crossed paths with her some more, mostly at the market. He’s waved at her from a distance, or she’s waved at him, but somehow she eluded him every time he tried to find her. His last real conversation with her was when he bought two masks from her, one for himself and one for Muriel, which hadn’t been the best of ideas considering how Muriel refused to come with him tonight, citing a hatred for the palace. He had asked her again if he would see her at the masquerade. 

“I don’t think I’ll be attending,” she had answered, biting her lip.

He had wanted to convince her, had wanted to ask her why, but there had been other customers grappling for her attention, and he’d just left, deflated. He tried finding her again after that day, that last conversation of theirs, but just was not able to. Twice, he tried stopping by her shop, and twice, it had been locked, dark inside. He also tried the theatre when passing by, without more luck. He also has not seen her at the market for the past two weeks.

Some part of him thinks she might have left town. She has said she wasn’t sure she would adapt, after all; perhaps she left before her aunt even came back. If that’s the case, he’s disappointed she would leave without a farewell for him.

He hasn’t lost all hope, however. He can’t help searching every masked face around him in the halls of the palace for her. He’s almost sure he recognizes her handiwork in many of them. How ironic, that so much of something she has made would be here tonight but not her.

As the hours pass, he’s no longer searching for her. She’s said to him more than once that Vesuvia isn’t so big a city they would not cross paths again, but with what seems like its whole population in the palace, the odds feel slighter than ever.

After walking aimlessly for some time, he stumbles upon a room covered in fiery drapes. It might be a trick of the light, but he could swear he’s seen this exact fabric in her shop. It feels even more uncanny that at the center of the room, a group of dancers hold the public’s attention. He observes them intently, but doesn’t expect to see her among them. They’re not dancing like she does; it’s a mix of local traditional dances, beautiful all the same, but not… what had she called it? It was ballet, wasn’t it? He’s ashamed he can’t remember if he’s right.

He watches those dancers for some time from a distance. He wishes he hadn’t left Faust at home with Muriel. He’s starting to lose interest in the celebration, being here without someone to share it with. Movement at the opposite corner of the room catches his eye. A small group of people is walking out of a doorway hidden by some of the drapes. Intrigued, he heads in that direction.

As soon as he’s beyond the drapes, he can’t believe he did not hear the music from the other side. He hears vibrant violins, the sound filling the small, horribly-lit corridor he finds himself in. At the end of it, he can see the faint outline of an array of empty sitting cushions cast in pink light. He’s stunned; he doesn’t think in all the times he’s attended the masquerade he’s ever been alone in a room.

He is cautious with his steps as he walks in, excitement rising as he wonders what he’ll find. Before he’s reached the cushion, the song fades out and so do the lights. He fumbles in the dark to find his way to a seat. It is so dark he cannot even gage how big the room is, or if he really is alone.

And then a new song begins. The melody is still being played by violins, cutting through the silence with an achingly sorrowful complaint. Slowly, a blue light starts to fill the room, and he can make out a silhouette, still and close to the ground in an impossible position. The strings reach a high pitch, and with it the silhouette rises. Instantaneously, he is stunned; he can’t see the face, can’t tell the color of the hair from the colored lighting, but the movements betray her identity more distinctly than anything else could. Clara has not left Vesuvia; she’s right there in front of him, dancing,  _ again _ .

As the light grows brighter on her, he can see better what she’s wearing. It’s a dress with a silhouette unlike any he can recall seeing around Vesuvia, or so it appears to be. The top part is very much like the corset he saw her in at the theater, but this one is blinding white and speckled with tiny crystals refracting the light, making her look like she is emanating light. The skirt falls above her ankle, its many pleats covered in long strings of white feathers, eerie in the way it swings and floats with her slightest movement. She is wearing those dancing shoes again, pointes if he recalls correctly. There are white feathers in her hair, which has been tamed into a tight bun atop her head, and on her mask. The overall effect is nothing short of transcendental, and that’s without even the way she moves.

The thing is, he’s not sure how she does it, but she doesn’t even move like a human. The way her arms move… it suddenly clicks in his mind what’s going on. She’s emulating a swan, and perfectly so at that. There is a distress in her face that matches her dance, her eyes always cast either to the ground or up in the air, never straight ahead. Does she know someone is there? Does she know it’s him? She looks so distant, even though she is only a few feet away.

Time stands still as he watches her, and the ache her performance gives off is so jarring his chest tightens. She spins unbelievably fast at one point, her arms moving so much like wings it truly looks like she’ll take off any moment. When she leaps, she looks weightless and never makes a sound when her feet fall to the ground. The music is so lovelorn, Asra finds himself wondering if he’s getting enamoured with the swan or herself. Before long, too soon for his taste, the lights dim with the last dying notes that hang heavy in the air. While darkness engulfs her, she lowers towards the ground, her movements slowing, and she finishes in a pose that evokes a sleeping swan.

He doesn’t know if he should clap. It feels out of place in the heavy silence. Startling him, the curtain at the end of the corridor parts, and he hears shuffling and whispers as more people join him in the room. He wishes he could compel them to go away, almost considers doing it with a spell.

When the light turns back on, it is an odd red. Her costume… her costume has changed. The shape and cut remains the same, but the feathers of the outfit are now orange, her corset blood red and encrusted with gold. She moves so differently now, yet still somehow makes it clear that she is still acting as a bird. The music is much livelier, and every step she takes is a short bouncy jump. She now looks straight at the audience with a playful expression he’s never seen on her. When their eyes meet, she winks, he’s sure he saw it, and grins, and his heart stops.

He watches her dance for all the rest of the night, and everytime the lights flare back up she is a new bird, a whole new person. It reminds him of a very old story (or was it a poem?) his father - and he’d forgotten about it until now - would tell him when he couldn’t sleep, something about a conference of birds and their lost king.

At some point, to his surprise, Julian walks into the room and settles beside him as the lights are dimming, her peacock frozen into a prance. In the darkness, he hears him whisper a question.

“Has she done the Raven Queen number yet? It’s my favourite,” he tells him, and somehow he can  _ hear _ his smirk.

Asra’s stomach drops at the comment. When the lights turn back on and she is a hummingbird, clad in lush greens and blues and golds and flitting all over the room her feet never once stopping, he steals glances at Julian. He seems delighted, but not in a way the other people in the room are, with occasional pleased gasps and raised brows. He looks… he looks like he’s seen it before. That, paired with his hushed comment earlier, makes dawn on him the absolute certainty that he  _ definitely _ has, and it sparks an envious bitterness within him, one he is oh so not proud of.

When finally the lights dim and don’t light back up, everyone shuffles out of the room blindly. Everyone but Asra and Julian. Asra wishes he would go away too, he feels like he has so much to say to her despite not knowing how to.

When a faint light illuminates the room again, he can see her sat on the floor, undoing her shoes, her mask on the floor beside her. She smiles at them both, a bright sparkle in her eyes. It’s so easily noticeable, how she’s herself again now.

“I did it,” she says, beaming, tossing her shoes aside and stretching out her toes, bandaged and bruised.

Julian goes to her, offers a hand to help lift her to her feet. “You sure did.”

She takes his hands and gets up, before turning her eyes to Asra. “What did you think?”

_ I thought you were gone _ , he wants to say, but catches himself. “It was beautiful,” he smiles to her. “You were beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she blushes, pleased, and Julian raises an eyebrow at him. “And thank you, Ilya. This wouldn’t have been possible without you,” she tells Julian, squeezing his arm lightly.

“You’re giving me too much credit, by far,” Julian says, but he does it with a prideful grin.

Asra is confused.  _ Ilya? _ “I didn’t know you two knew each other,” he says, scratching the back of his head.

“We first met, gods, how many years ago?” she starts to explain, looking to Julian for confirmation. “It was back when he was still in Nevivon. Not that I knew him very well at the time,” she shakes her head. “Seeing him here was definitely a surprise. He… he convinced the count to let me dance tonight.”

Asra is shocked. How long has this been in the works?

“It wasn’t very hard to, once I presented him with the facts,” Julian both shrugs and gloats at the same time.

“The facts, uh?” Asra asked, still very confused.

He catches Clara shooting a wary look to Julian. “He explained just how appreciated  _ ballet _ is, in the North,” she is quick to answer.

Julian frowns, which he quickly covers up with another smirk. “Hm, yes, what she said.”

Asra could roll his eyes. It’s obvious they’re hiding something from him, and he doesn’t mind the what as much as the why.

“Alright then, I’m afraid I must be on my way,” Julian clamors, clearing his throat to break the awkward silence that has befallen them. “Clara, your gift never ceases to amaze me,” he presses her hands with a sly smile, and she almost rolls her eyes but smiles back.

“Take care, Ilya,” she bids him goodbye.

Asra is left alone with her. Finally. Of course, that’s the moment his mouth chooses to dry up.

“I’m glad you found me, tonight,” she tells him softly.

He forgets all about Julian right then and there.

“To be honest, I’ve been searching for you for the past two weeks,” he chuckles half-heartedly. “I… I wasn’t even sure you were still in Vesuvia.”

Her brows raise at that. “Really?”

“You’re not as easy to track down as you say you are,” he teases, and she huffs a small laugh.

They just stare at each other. There’s a febrility to it, to the stillness of the room around them.

“Do you want to walk me home again?” she blurts unexpectedly. She seems shocked the words left her mouth, and she bites her lip as if to bite them back.

He finds himself wondering if her mouth is as soft as it looks, hopes the light is dim enough to hide the creeping flush on his cheeks and neck.  _ Well this is new _ , he thinks.

“Gladly,” he manages to answer.

She grins. “The mask fits you well,” she points out.

He has forgotten he is wearing it still. Before he can move to untie the ribbon laced around his head, she steps towards him and reaches to do it herself. He is stunned into stillness. She’s so close he can see her skin glistening with sweat and melted glitter.

“There,” she says, pulling the mask away from his eyes. She lingers just long enough that he thinks he might try and lean in, just to see how she’d react he tells himself, before she takes a step back and hands him the mask back.

“I’m glad you haven’t left,” he sputters, embarrassed by the effect she has on him tonight. It must be the masquerade. Yes, that has to be it. “I-,” he finds himself continuing, “I’d like to see you more, really. You’re so.... Unlike anyone else.”

She positively reddens at the comment. “I wouldn’t mind that,” she answers, eyes cast to the ground.

When they exit the palace together, the horizon is blue with the daybreak. He hasn’t realized just how much time had passed, in there. As he walks her home, he can sense just how exhausted she is, and takes it upon himself to carry the weight of conversation. He comments on every variation of bird he saw her dance as, and she chuckles as she links her arm with his. He likes  _ that _ a lot.

“Which one was your favourite?” she asks, looking up at him, curious.

He takes a second to consider his answer, even though he already knows it. “The swan,” he answers, resolute. “I’m glad I got there in time to see it.”

As the horizon turns yellow, he’s reminded of a memory he has of his parents. This one he never forgot; it’s one of the most distinct he has left.

_ “Anything at all can happen just before the sunrise,” _ his father had said.

Asra doesn’t remember why they’d all been up so early. He wishes he could. But he does remember his mother’s tutting in response.

_ “Don’t give him any ideas Salim,” _ she’d tenderly scolded his father.  _ “He has a hard enough time sleeping as it is, lest he start to wake up impossibly early too.” _

It’s all he can remember, this snippet, and the echoing sound of their combined laughter. Usually when he recalls it, it tugs at his heart, but right now, all it does is embolden him.

“And,” he adds confidently, “I liked that we were alone together for it,” he glances at her.

She doesn’t offer any outward reaction to this, but he is convinced she is biting the inside of her cheek. It’s both frustrating and endearing, how coy she is with him. Tentatively, he moves his arm so her hold on it loosens, and he takes her hand in his. She peers up at him through her lashes. His own eyes are lidded as he stares back, silently. She looks back to the street ahead, but still resumes her hold of his arm for support with her free hand. He slips his fingers in between hers, and she shudders.

“Are you cold?” he whispers, concerned.

“No,” she breathes, and her voice is light but the meaning behind the answer hangs heavy in his chest.

They continue in idle silence until they reach the door of her shop. She climbs the two short stairs that lead to it, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. He brings it up to his mouth and kisses it softly, eyes shutting involuntarily as he does.

“You were beautiful tonight,” he repeats his earlier words intently, letting go of her fingers.

Her whole face flushes. “You,” she stutters, ” You’ve said that already.”

“I know,” he replies with a teasing smile. “I’ll say it again, if you want me to.”

She makes that face of hers that is so hard to read again. Has he pushed it too far?

She walks down one of the two step, closer to eye level with him now. It doesn’t happen especially quick, but it still is fast enough that he barely registers how she places her hands on his shoulders, drawing him to her before she places a soft, barely-there kiss on his cheek.

“I wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye,” she whispers in his ear.

It’s his turn to grow red hot as she retreats back into her shop with a last look over her shoulder before she closes the door.

He’s left alone in the street, the sky aflame with the sunrise, his hand reaching to his cheek where she kissed him as if he’ll be able to feel the ghost of her.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s the end of the season, the end of Spring, and Clara has been in Vesuvia for two months now, has been Asra’s his life for nearly as long. Ever since the masquerade, he’s been spending more time with her, although not as much as he’d want to. Not enough to know where they stand.

He knows he likes her, that much is clear. He also knows she likes him too, just not in which way. Some days, he walks her home from the market and she invites him over for tea and they talk for hours, but never anything more. They talk about places she’s visited (and she’s travelled a lot, he now knows), about life in Vesuvia, about everything really but themselves. He knows where she’s been but not why; she knows about his favourite hideouts in the city but not how he discovered them.

Other days, he stops by her shop and hangs out with her in the atelier as she works on costumes for the theatre troupe. He likes these slow afternoons the most of all the time they spend together. He likes the long, silent lulls in the conversation when she needs to focus more, likes how she asks him for his opinion on details and how she uses him as a living mannequin. Most of all, he likes how close she gets when she measures and tucks and pins the fabric he dons for her.

Still, with all the time they’ve been sharing, she hasn’t given him anything tangible to find meaning in since that kiss on the cheek on the night of the masquerade. He’s tried flirting with her a number of times when the tension got dense enough between them, but she’s been so consistently oblivious he’s starting to think she’s ignoring his attempts on purpose.

That’s why the prospect of the next few days has been keeping him up at night for almost a week now. When she mentioned needing to get out of the city the previous week, he brought up the upcoming painted daisy festival, and her eyes lit up so noticeably he told her about his place no too far away from Nopal. He told her if she really wanted to go he would be more than happy to go with her, that they could even stay at his place for the three-day span of the festivities. He did not expect to be able to convince her so easily

Now that they’re actually here, just outside of this new house of his he swindled from a drunk seafarer who no longer had a use for it, it feels surreal. They left Vesuvia right after she closed up her shop at the end of the day, and they’ve managed to make it here before dark, all thanks to that beast in the fields. He congratulates himself mentally on the choice of transportation; riding the beast from the field with her holding on to him so tight has left him light-headed, not solely due to their speed of travel.

He’s always liked twilight in the desert, and likes it even more when its purple light glows upon her beside him. In fact, she’s staring up at the sky with excited wonder.

“I bet you can see every last star in the sky at night out here,” she says, beaming at the prospect.

“It’s something else,” he confirms, amused. “Do you want to see inside?”

She nods enthusiastically. “This is exactly what I needed, Asra, this getaway,” she says earnestly. “How did you know?”

“I had a hunch,” he chuckles.

He leads her inside, studies her reaction carefully. He’s loved how small and simple the house is from the start, but now that he’s showing it to her, he’s anxious she might find it confining and plain.

“It’s so peaceful,” she sighs dreamily, easing his worries. “You might have a hard time getting me to leave by the end of this,” she jokes, setting her bag down.

“I’m glad you like it,” he grins at her approval. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

The tour doesn’t last very long, because there isn’t that much to go around. She trails her fingers on the adobe walls, following him around.

“...and last but not least, here’s the bedroom,” he tells her. “It’s all yours. I’ll sleep in the living room,” he adds before the question comes up.

She frowns. “It’s your house. I’m just a guest, you should have the bed,” she tries to reason him.

He smirks. “Pretty sure that it being my house means I get to make the rules.”

She rolls her eyes in protest, and though she doesn’t argue, she does not look convinced. Her stomach rumbles, and she gives him an embarrassed glance.

“Hungry, uh?” he teases her. “We can head to town and grab something to eat there and watch the last preparations for the festival, or we can stay here and make something from scratch,” he lays out. “Your choice.”

“I can’t wait to see Nopal,” she begins, hesitant, “but it’s been a long day. I think I’d rather stay here tonight, if that’s okay with you.”

He smiles at her. He’d hoped she would say that. “To the kitchen, then,” he winks.

There isn’t much in the cupboards, but he’s had the forethought of grabbing a few things at the market before leaving. She sizes up the ingredients before them, before her eyes light up. There’s a recipe she learned just before arriving in Vesuvia that they can make with this. He follows her instructions as they start, chopping eggplant, olives, peppers and herbs as she roasts pine nuts and pieces of flatbread.

The kitchen is small, to say the least, and as they work, they keep brushing past each other, a flurry of excuses and flusters. She makes him toss the now roasted vegetables in a bowl with the nuts before she sprinkles in spices and pours olive oil and lemon juice in. After he tosses for a bit, she puts a hand on his arm to make him stop, and scoops out some of the mix with a piece of toasted flatbread. She hums in pleasure when she tastes it, before repeating the gesture and handing him the sample so he can taste.

“What do you think?” she asks him, licking her lips.

The blend of tastes is not unfamiliar, but he’s never had this particular dish before. It’s fresh and slightly juicy, salty but not spicy. It’s perfect for a hot evening like this.

“Delicious,” he declares with a grin. “How about we eat this outside? It’s still so nice out,” he suggests.

She beams. “That sounds lovely.”

Minutes later they are out behind the house on its little hill, sitting on a blanket he laid out for them. The sky is darker now, so he’s brought out a lantern for them, which casts a warm flamelight-yellow on them. She asks him about the festival as they eat, and he explains to her how it marks the first bloom of daisies which marks the transition between spring and summer. He tells her about the paper lanterns hung in the streets and of the music that fills the air, and about how the last time he attended he came home with a plethora of flower petals stuck in his hair and to his clothes.

She sighs dreamily, leaning back on her arms. There isn’t much food left, and she seems about done.

“I can’t wait to see it for myself,” she says. “Thank you again for bringing me here.”

“It’s nothing, really,” he brushes it off.

“No,” she shakes her head, “It means a lot, to me at least. You know I’ve seen my fair share of places, but I’ve never really taken the time to just… enjoy them like this.”

He frowns. He finally has an opening to ask the question he’s been itching to bring up. “What  _ did _ you do, then?”

She avoids his eyes, glancing towards where the desert meets the horizon, where the last strip of faint light remains. “I… It’s not important, really.”

He wants to press her for an actual answer, but abstains. He wouldn’t want to be talking about his own past right now either.

“The first stars are out,” she points at the sky, changing the topic.

Before he even looks up he knows she’s right. Stars shine so bright out here they don’t even need total darkness to be seen. She sets their empty plates aside and lies down on the blanket, eyes to the heavens, smile endearingly giddy.

“Do you think we might see a shooting star?” she asks him, angling her head to look up at him.

Looking at her like that, he’s rendered helpless. He just wants to lie down, to pull her close and kiss her until the morning light. Instead, he gulps, and looks up so she won’t see the flush on his face.  _ Get it together _ , he scolds himself.

“We might,” he answers quietly, despite knowing this time of year isn’t prone to starfall.

They look at the stars in a content silence. Eventually, he lies down as well, leaving enough distance between them that they don’t touch even with his elbows spread out from his hands being under his head. As the night darkens, more stars come out. He blows out the flame in the lantern, and they are only lit by moonlight only then. A faint breeze rustles through the palms by the house.

“I could stay like this forever,” she whispers, as if not being able to commit to disrupting the silence. “I never thought I’d like the desert so much.”

He turns his head towards her. “Tell me about where you’re from,” he prompts her.

She chuckles. “Again?”

“Again.”

She looks back to the sky before she begins. “It’s a land of mountains and of forests, but not like the one that lines Vesuvia. They’re forests made for the winter, with trees whose leaves don’t fall in the winter. From where I grew up, we were high enough on the mountainside that we could see the sea meet the valley in the distance when the day was clear.”

“I wonder what you were like as a child,” he muses.

She doesn’t answer right away. He wonders why she hesitates.

“I was a serious child,” she finally answers. “I wasn’t one for dallying in the streets or getting into trouble. I don’t have many distinct memories from that time, somehow.” She pauses. “What about you?”

He huffs. “I don’t think a day went by where I wasn’t dallying in the streets or getting into trouble.”

She laughs. A beat of silence passes. “When was the last time you saw a shooting star?” she asks him.

He ponders the answer. “Last summer, I think.”

“Did you make a wish?”

“I think I did. I couldn’t tell you what it was, though,” he tells her. It’s a lie. Every wish he’s ever made for as long as he can remember has been the same. It’s always about having his parents back, even though he no longer needs them like he used to. Old habits die hard, after all. “What about you?”

“I haven’t seen a shooting star in over a decade,” she says wistfully, eyes boring into the sky as if she’s trying to manifest one to wish upon. “I’ve only ever seen one, actually. I think I was six? Or maybe I was eight. It’s all so blurry.”

He takes advantage of the fact that she isn’t looking at him to study her inconspicuously. Asra has spent so many sleepless nights looking at the stars, it’s hard for him to fathom she’s only ever seen a single shooting star. “What did you wish for?” he asks carefully.

The corner of her mouth quirks up. “I wished to become the best ballerina that ever lived. You could say I was plenty ambitious.”

He chuckles. “And did you?”

Her smile falters, and she presses her lips together. “Well, you’ve seen me dance haven’t you?” she tries to be playful, but it rings false. “I’ll let you be the judge of it.”

The wind picks up and blows over their silence. It brings the infamous chill of a desert night. She shivers and runs her hands on her arms to warm herself.

“We can go back in,” he offers, “If you’re cold.”

She turns her head to face him. “Not yet,” she replies, and there’s a plea in her eyes he wasn’t prepared for. “Just a little bit longer…”

“Okay,” he sucks in a breath, “but I’m not letting you freeze. Do you… uh, if you want you can, uh,” he stutters, and she squints at him slightly, confused. He starts extending an arm towards her but retracts it almost immediately, faking a stretch. “Nevermind,” he shakes his head, and looks back up to the star.

He can feel her eyes weighing heavy on him. She turns onto her side, and he doesn’t look at her but his stomach drops. Silently, she scoots closer to him until their sides touch and she rests her head on his shoulder.

“Do you mind?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Of course he doesn’t. Whatever the opposite of minding is, is what he’s feeling.

“I don’t,” he answers just as quietly.

It takes him a moment before he dares to move his arm to wrap it around her. He wants to turn his head and see the look on her face to gage if it’s fine with her, but she’s so close now, he fears if he does his nose might bump into her temple. He ends up getting his answer when she squirms carefully, readjusting to nestle into the cradle of his arm. Doing so, she reaches an arm out, letting her hand rest on where his chest and his abdomen meet.

It feels like a wish he never took the time to make has just come true. He is hyper aware of the way she moves with each breath, of where her touch ends and begins on his shirt, of -  _ Oh _ , the thought resounds in his head from the shock of the way she is tracing the smallest loops on his stomach with two of her fingers, just barely moving them.

He grows hot all over, can’t help the way his breath hitches and the way his eyes grow wide. Just before he closes his eyes, he sees it, and before it’s even started the moment is over when she shoots up in a sitting position.

“Did you see it?” she asks, almost squealing with excitement. “Asra, did you see?” she asks again, twisting to look back at him.

“Make a wish,” he chuckles, exhaling the thrill.  _ Couldn’t have waited a bit longer, could you? _ he mentally asks the shooting star that just trailed the sky above them.

She draws her knees to her chest and encircles them with her arms, shutting her eyes and unable to stop smiling. As she does so, he slowly sits up too, and his slight disappointment is washed away with a rush of affection for her.  _ This is what she was holding out for _ , he understands.

She opens her eyes, and they are sparkling as the sky above. “You have to make one too,” she grins.

Obeying, he shuts his eyes.  _ I wish… _ he starts thinking, and hesitates. He’s been wishing for his parents for years now, and every past wish has yet to come true. Perhaps he should try something new.  _ I wish her wish comes true _ .

When he opens his eyes, she tears her eyes away from him quickly. There’s a pensive expression to her now, her excitement having faded. A gush of wind interrupts their thoughts to reminds them both how cold it has gotten already.

“Ready to go back inside?” he asks her, rising to his feet when she nods and holding out a hand for her.

She grabs it with one of hers, the other gathering her skirt. She gets up with a spring in her movement, and it brings her up close to Asra, probably closer than she’d anticipated. Her hand lingers in his, and he makes no effort to let go. Her eyes seem impossibly wide as she gazes up at him like this.

“Your hair…,” she whispers, reaching up to graze a single curl tentatively. “Has anyone ever told you it’s the color of the moon?”

He flushes, hard. He can’t bear to keep looking into her eyes at the moment, his gaze sliding sideways. His reaction appears to shake her from her wonder, and she steps away from him.

“Sorry,” she huffs, now staring at her feet. “I don’t know what got over me.”

“No, don’t be,” he’s quick to reply, shaking his fluster away by shaking his head.

She laughs nervously. “I’ll, uh, I’ll take this back inside,” she says as she starts picking up their empty plates.

“I’ll get the blanket,” he mumbles, embarrassed by his own reactions.

He follows her inside silently, meeting her in the kitchen after having set the blanket down. She’s busy washing the dishes, and though she stops when he comes close, he’s sure he heard her hum one of her music box songs. Coincidentally, from his favourite one, the one she told him was the music from a song about remembering loved ones after a farewell. It’s ironic, that this would be the one to speak to him before he even knew what it was about.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he tells her, gesturing to the dishes in her hands.

She tuts at him. “If you’re giving up your bed for me, this is the least I can do.”

He shakes his head, huffing. “You don’t have to be the perfect guest for me, Clara,” he teases her, and is pleased to see it works when she reddens under her freckles. “Do you need to bathe tonight? I can conjure up a bath in the tub if you want,” he offers, leaning back against the counter.

She pauses her scrubbing, considering his offer. “You know what,” she starts, stretching out her shoulders and rolling her neck slightly, “I’m pretty tired. I’ll push it back to tomorrow morning, if that’s fine with you?”

“Of course,” he nods, amused that she basically asked him for permission when he would gladly let her dance on the counters if the whim took her.

“Thank you,” she says, setting down the last cleaned plate on the same washcloth as the others to dry.

She yawns, stretching out her arms. He glances away as soon as he notices that the movement pushes her chest out, momentarily exposing more cleavage.

“Ready for bed?” he asks her.

She nods, flashing him an apologetic glance. “Sorry I’m so exhausted.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he chuckles. “Do you need anything else?”

She shakes her head, yawning again. “I’m all good, thank you,” she smiles, and he can see a doze creeping into her gaze. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

“Me neither.”


	6. Where Thoughts Can Bloom

The following day, the sun is high above the horizon when Asra wakes. The first thing he hears before he even opens his eyes is a muffled ‘thud’. He lifts himself up on his elbows, scanning the room around him to find the origin of the sound. His eyes land on Clara, wincing behind the counter in the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he tells her, voice drowsy with the remnants of sleep.

“I’m sorry I woke you up, I didn’t mean to,” she sighs. “You looked so… peaceful. From the glimpse I caught, anyways,” she hastily adds.

He raises a brow at that, but lets it slide, not awake enough to draw any conclusions. “How long have you been up?”

“Not long,” she replies, sheepish. “I wanted to make breakfast before you woke up. I guess that ship has sailed,” she chuckles embarrassed.

His movements are slow as he gets up and stretches out his arms. He walks to join her in the kitchen.

“What are we making?” he asks her. His voice is still a bit hoarse, and her face is hard to read when she notices it.

“Well,” she starts, looking down at the items scattered in the corner, “I was going to make caramelized peaches and bananas, but I’m still just cutting the fruit.”

His stomach growls at the prospect. “That sounds delicious.”

“I think you’ll like it,” she smirks. “Here, why don’t you finish cutting up the peaches while I get started on the bananas?”

They’re more used to sharing the small space now, and as they finish preparing their breakfast, there is less bumping into each other. At one point, he can’t help stealing a slice of peach for himself, and she shoots him an amused glance.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he tells her, sheepish.

“It’s not that,” she chuckles. “... you have some juice here,” she adds, pointing to the corner of her own mouth.

He attempts to lick it off, which only makes her laugh. “Hold on,” she says, and sets down the wooden spoon she’s been using to prod at the fruit in the pan.

With a quick step towards him, she reaches for his chin and swipes at the corner of his mouth with her thumb. Only thing is, she does not let go of him right away, eyes fixed on his lips. It gives him a surge of confidence, and he dares to move his head to kiss her thumb, sucking on it gently to clean off the bead of juice she’s collected from him. He hums in contentment.

She turns bright red and returns her attention to the sizzling pan. He can’t help but smirk. He might not be successful in getting her to flirt back with him yet, but at least he’s getting a reaction now.

As they eat their breakfast, golden morning light filters into the house through the windows. With the sunlight comes a pleasant underlying heat that comes and settles all around them. In a moment of silence after he eats his last bite, he closes his eyes, blissed out by the sweet taste lingering on his lips and the warmth of the sun ray cast upon him. He opens his eyes moments later only to find that once again, she is studying him carefully, her expression hard to decipher.

“What?” he asks her, eyes still lidded.

“The sunlight…” she trails off. “You look as though you’re made of gold,” she finishes, pensive.

“Really?” he smirks, relishing in the way he holds her full attention.

“I wish you could see yourself,” she tells him, leaning against the back of her seat, facing him. “You look…” she hesitates, as if searching for the right word.

He jumps in, mischievous. “Like a magician?” he suggests, recalling her comment when she’d learned he was one.

“Sacred,” she completes her thought, lip jutting out as she considers him.

He doesn’t understand how she managed to say all this with a straight face. He himself is baffled into a fluster. _Sacred_ , he repeats to himself. _Well that’s… a word._ Her eyes on him are heavy. He clears his throat, trying to dispel the moment.

“So, uh,” he trips over his words, “what do you want to do next?”

Her lips tighten as she attempts to hide her amusement. “Well, you did promise me a bath last night…,” she hints.

“Right! I’ll get that sorted for you,” he eagerly jumps out of his seat. Anything to flee the weight of that gaze.

 

* * *

 

It’s late in the afternoon by the time they head to Nopal. There’s a bounce in her step as they walk, and she seems different, too. He’s not sure whether to attribute it to her demeanor, her outfit, or a combination of both, but she seems more relaxed than he’s ever seen her.

For one, she has traded in her usual functional clothes for something more festive and adapted to the heat; a flowy, voluminous skirt that billows in ruffles just below her knee paired with a top which consists of one big matching ruffle encircling her chest, leaving her shoulders, arms and waist bare, the whole set dyed in the same forget-me-not hue. She has tied a bandana the color of grapefruit pulp on top of her massive head of curls, which she has left down, a rare occurrence. The whole ensemble makes her appear more carefree than he’s used to. It also teases more skin than he’s used to on her, a fact that is not lost on him.

Her smiles seem to come and go more easily, her laughter is more bubbly too. In the city, she is focused and attentive and careful, but out here, he’s only just now getting a glimpse at this whole new side of her. He likes it, likes it a lot.

When they step into the streets of Nopal, the festival is already in full swing. Colorful floral banners hang above the streets leading to the town square, and music ebbs and flows from every corner. Children are running around full of glee, sweeping up fallen petals with their haste. Chatter is lively all around. Delicious smells are entangled in the air, emanating from various stalls lining the streets and peppered across the town square. When they step into the heart of the action, she flashes him a wide grin.

“What do you think?” he asks, her own enthusiasm starting to wear off on him.

“It’s even better than I imagined,” she bites her lip in her smile. “There’s more people than I expected, too!”

He laughs. “The festival usually attracts many people from the surrounding area. Just don’t go getting lost on me in that crowd,” he teases. “Maybe I should hold your hand to reduce the risks of that happening,” he adds with a wink.

Her grin turns into a playful smirk, and he feels his heartbeat speed up. “Perhaps you should,” she retorts.

With that, instead of leaving him time to process what she’s just said to him, she dashes ahead and he almost bumps into several people trying to catch up to her. When he does, she’s eyeing a booth where young women are painting vibrant flowers onto willing folk, from children to the elderly.

“I thought you said you weren’t one for dallying in the streets and getting into trouble,” he nudges her, “and yet, it’s the very first thing you do here,” he tuts with fake disapproval.

“I’m not a child anymore,” she replies with a mischievous smugness. “Although, I am feeling an urge to get some flowers painted onto me,” she eyes the booth again.

“Well, it _is_ the painted daisies festival after all,” he notes. “Would be a shame not to live up to its name.”

He ends up having small yet detailed trickle of lavender petals painted down his cheek like teardrops. As the brushstrokes tickle his cheek, he watches her beside him giggle when a peppy girl paints quick daisies of various sizes around the outer corner of her eye and an armband of vines and coral flowers on her.

“What next?” he asks her when the painting is over.

She reflexively reaches for her stomach. “I could go for some food,” she tells him.

“I know just the place then,” he assures her. “This way,” he says, and he takes her hand before she has the chance to dart off again.

She seems surprised when he entwines his fingers with her easily, like she doesn’t remember taunting him to just moments earlier. Still, as he guides them to their next stall, she squeezes his hand gently when he looks over his shoulder to check on her trailing him from a step behind. He can’t help brushing his thumb over the back of hers in reply. _I could get used to this_ , he thinks wistfully as he navigates the crowd.

Times passes in a blur as the sun travels above their heads towards the horizon. They share delicious foods and hop from one booth to the next. In one, they try a tea that renders them incapable of speech for a full two minutes, which they spend making insistent motions and widening eyes at each other. In another, she buys pouches of dried flowers to use in fabric dyes. When they spot a storefront selling a wide array of ornately decorated items, they both walk in with wandering eyes. They split up easily, him heading for the enchanted items and her for the jewelry of various sorts.

She’s all the way across the quiet store when he spots the unassuming crystal ball among the clutter. He reaches for it, hoping he might be able to trick the shopkeep into giving him a cheap price for it. What happens next takes him by surprise, almost startling him into dropping the ball.

As soon as his fingers touch the surface of the crystal, a layer of frost spreads all around it, before dissipating to reveal a cloud of shimmering white smoke manifests at its center. It swirls fast until the cloud erupts into a myriad of delicate speckles. With that, a tune rings clear into the air, the same kind of metallic sound as Clara’s music boxes. In fact, as soon as the melody starts, disrupting the absolute quiet of the shop, he sees her whip around immediately from across the room. There’s an expression of absolute shock that paints itself on her face as she zeroes in on the ball in his hands.

The vendor, an elderly man with tanned skin and a thick grey beard, approaches him.

“Ah yes, a fine item,” he says. “And a rare one, too. You have quite the eye for special items.”

Asra isn’t sure what to reply. What he’d expected the ball to be was far from what he was currently holding. “What… is this?” he asks, bringing it up to his eye level. Inside, the glimmering specks are suspended as they move, as if dancing to the music.

Before the vendor can answer, Clara walks up to them. “It’s a snowglobe,” she says, voice airy with stupor.

The vendor raises a brow. “A connoisseur, I see,” he remarks. “But this isn’t just any old snowglobe, no, not by a stretch.”

“What makes it so special?” Asra asks. He would be rolling his eyes at the evident pitch if it weren’t for Clara’s odd expression, a mix of hesitation and wonder.

“Very few of these were made,” the vendor starts to explain, conspiratorial. “I acquired it in my travels through the northern lands earlier this year. The fool who sold it to me had no idea of its value, but a local barkeep informed me upon showing it to him of the reason these were made. Tell me young man, have you ever heard of ballet?”

Asra’s brows shoot up. “I might’ve,” he glances sideways at Clara by his side.

The vendor looks at her with interest for the first time. “What pale complexion,” he notes. “You’re not from here, are you?” he asks her.

She bites her lip. “Looks like you’ve found me out. I was born in Montolia.”

The vendor whistles. “You’re a long way from home, little lady.”

She winces, the melody growing fainter now, coming to an end. Asra realizes it’s the first time he’s heard her speak the name of where she came from instead of dismissing it as one form or another of ‘far, far away’.

“So what about the snowglobe?” Asra asks, hoping to refocus the conversation away from her, sensing her discomfort.

The vendor nods. “Well, it’s not a story from Montolia, but you might’ve heard about it,” he winks at Clara. “These were made in celebration of a royal engagement. A whirlwind affair from what I’ve been told, between an enamored prince and a ballet dancer. Rumour is that he fell in love with her watching her dance to this song, and so as soon as the announcement was made, hundreds of these were ordered in celebration,” he points at the now still, silent globe.

“It can’t be that rare then,” Clara interjects meekly.

“Well that’s the thing,” the vendor resumes his spiel. “Not even a month into the engagement, the order was called off. The royal family announced that the engagement had been broken off, but whispers in the streets suggested she had left him, citing that her love for dancing was far greater than any love she could ever feel for a man. They say she is still touring the northern lands dancing to this day.”

“What a sad story,” Asra contemplates, setting the ball down back where he took it from.

“For the prince,” Clara whispers. “Say, how much do you want for the globe?” she asks the vendor to Asra’s surprise.

“I’m sure we can come to an agreement,” he smirks.

 

* * *

 

“What an unreasonable man,” Clara fumes as they step out of the store. “That is an exorbitant price for a snowglobe and he knows it.”

“Why did even you want it so bad?” Asra asks her, curious to find out. “It’s the relic of the worst kind of love story.”

She eyes him, dubious. “And what kind would that be, exactly?”

“The sad kind,” he answers her, straight-faced. “The kind with broken hearts at the end.”

“Well, I don’t know about _that_ ,” she sighs. “Besides, just because the story is sad doesn’t mean the song isn’t beautiful. I’ve been trying to find a music box for it as long as I can remember and I’ve never found any.”

“You knew the song?” he asks, surprised.

She simply nods, melancholic. She’s right there beside him, but he feels like she’s a floating lantern, slowly drifting away from him, and he feels powerless. She looks around the street they are in for what feels like forever. Finally, she turns back to him. There’s still that melancholy in her eyes, but something else, too.

“Where to next?” she asks him. As she does, she gently reaches to take his hand in hers.

“How about some dancing?” he proposes, invigorated by her gesture.

Her eyes light up, bright as the setting sun behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked these new chapters! I love this story and the next few chapters are already written, but I can't tell if anyone really cares about it or not. I'll keep on writing it regardless, but if I do it only for myself I'm not sure when I'll get back to it, motivation is kind of low tbh compared to the other stories I've got going on. I'm not trying to bait anyone into commenting or leaving kudos, even though I know that's what it looks like, I'm just telling it like it is. Anyways, see you next update, it'll be a good one x


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